Something Taken
by flight seer
Summary: TMR/HG/DM: There was just something wrong with the situation that she was in. The white light that surrounded her, engulfed her, brought her somewhere she didn't belong. No, that wasn't right, was it? There were two of them now. Two completely different beings, trying to sort out their differences while one of them wants vengeance, revenge. They were a force to be reckoned with.
1. Prologue

I've been feeling greatly inspired to write a Dramione/Tomione fan fiction because of (both) **provocative envy** and **Serpent In Red**.

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PROLOGUE

**OOO**

The sky was quiet, it was grey, and it looked like the calm before the storm. The small, white room, had its equally proportionate window shoved open. The walls plastered no resemblance of the person residing inside. It was plain, white and boring. The blankets and pillows were strewn across the floor and the room was dark only the dark-lit sky offering some sort of light. It was that time of the day where the clouds had blocked the sun where it made it seem like the sky was night.

Hermione held tightly the sleek, silver cigarette lighter and slid her thumb across the top. The lights that were on, there bulbs suddenly became black and hollow. In her room it was dark and the wind was nipping at her skin. In a blink of an eye, the room was light and happy – and somehow stupidly opposite of what Hermione was feeling.

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and then her top. Her lips were dry and her tongue was parched, and even her throat ached for her daily potion. Hermione wasn't even supposed to be here anymore. She was supposed to be out, trying to find Harry who seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth after everything that happened.

It had been three months prior to the Battle of Hogwarts and one month after the funeral. She only remembered seeing him and conversing lightly about how beautiful Germany really was and how Quidditch was a little more exciting there than it had been at Hogwarts. She listened to him talk – she listened to him and how little his voice sounded – she listened when there wasn't really anything to talk about or reply to – she listened to him when he had said he was going to propose to Ginny at the end of her seventh year at H_ogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._ Hermione had listened to him and once she finally got to speak, to tell him _she_ was returning back to school – that she _needed_ to go back to school – she couldn't get how his face looked out of her mind.

It had been singed in there and the look of anguish and disappointment haunted her every night after. She had to tell him she wasn't like him – that she wasn't like Ron – and he was angry because she couldn't, she wouldn't follow him along like a puppy. She wanted to finish her years at Hogwarts – she wanted, no – she craved a normal year.

How could he have not obliged after everything they, both, have gone through?

Her reverie was disrupted. An old nurse pulling in a small trolley with empty potion bottles except for one pale blue one. The nurse – the healer – had seen better days. She had graying black hair and wonderful blue eyes. She was handsome despite the scars that erupted against her cheeks, moving all the way down her chest and ended at the start of her bosom.

The room suddenly smelt of sterilization and she was reminded of the time she had gone to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts and how Ron had called her name instead of Lavander's and how Lavander Brown got mad and threw a tantrum and how Hermione went to his side – in such a quick manner – and held his hand, rubbing her thumb along his forearm as he slept soundly. She even remembered him murmuring in his sleep. Something about spiders.

He looked like such a child when he slept. He looked so innocent and so at ease – even if there were dark circles under his eyes – he was beautiful in his own, rustic way.

Hermione grimaced; she grimaced at the smell, and as her heart ached so quickly – so suddenly, that an acrid taste clung to her saliva as she tried to swallow down the putrid taste. A quick glimpse into the past and she was already on her way to being nothing – to crumble right in front of the nurse who had seen worse causes – people with a very bad outcome, come tumbling in here.

"…, the new Headmistress from Hogwarts is sending someone to bring a letter to you today." Her voice was raspy. It was raspy and it somehow calmed down her aching nerves.

Hermione Granger looked at her healer with such a dumbfound look that it even made the nurse question what she had just said. But then the nurse continued and poured Hermione's potion in a ceramic mug and put it on her nightstand table. The mug was green.

"If it's anyone but that oaf of a giant—"

"His name is Hagrid." Hermione had interrupted sourly, crossing her arms over her chest. "That – _oaf of a giant _– is Hagrid."

Suddenly and so quickly and without any hesitation, Hermione had ran her thumb across the _deluminator _once more and the room had gone dark. She could smell the potion and it was intoxicating and it made her dizzy and her eyes heavy.

Hermione frowned and wrapped her hands around her waist once more and dug her nails into her skin – into her bones – until she winced. Until she cried out – until she calmed down and listened to the steps echo off the walls until she couldn't hear anyone anymore.

A strand of her curly, brown hair had fallen in front of her face and she moved her hand and put it behind her ear. Her heartbeat was beating loudly that she could feel her skin throb, her ears ache, and her brain pound. It was a deafening silence – _thump, thump, thump _– and she wanted to be able to listen to the wind – _thump, thump, thump _– and she wanted to hear something else, something other than her own heartbeat.

Something was knocking, something was sounding in the halls – footsteps, echoing off the walls. Off the navy blue tiles that had contrasted so differently with the white linoleum. The halls were so much more enchanting than the rooms patients resided in. They were wonderful and exciting. Not white and never boring. The lights illuminated off the blue tiles like the moon reflecting off the lake's water. The steps – they were matching the sound of her heartbeat. The way it pounded lazily, and loudly, and slowly, and it made her think – made her wonder – of who it could be.

Then the steps stopped and out of instinct the orbs of light reappeared in their designated spots. It was bright and she suddenly felt anxious about who could be standing behind that door. She hadn't wanted any visitors since her arrival. She begged the people who ran St. Mungo's to not let them see her. She simply did not want to be seen. Not by Ginny, not by Harry; not even by Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Three hard knocks and a very faint groan escaped this person's lips before the voice spoke up – before he spoke up. "Granger, I've got a letter waiting for you."

Hermione faintly noted that this voice was different from the regular voice's she heard lately, from what's she known. She struggled to get up, from the itchy spot on her bed and found herself unable to move, unable to respond, and to open the door.

She was silent.

She was quiet.

This was not Hermione Granger.

No, it was exactly like Hermione Granger who has, over the past few months, become mute, and numb to her surroundings – to people all around her.

"It's open." She said shakily and sat up and twirled a loose strand of the all-too-worn-out sweater that was almost two sizes too big for her, around her finger.

Her breath hitched in her throat when the door opened slowly. One pale hand was in his dark blue trousers and the other was holding a crumpled letter that faintly read, _Hermione Granger_. She licked her lips and tried to clear her voice, only to have guttural groans escape her lips. The dark blue contrasted against his pale, almost porcelain skin. She noted that he wasn't wearing a jacket and his white, button downed shirt had the sleeves rolled up right to his elbows.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

His eyes were different. They reminded her of the weather today. It had been grey and windy and _calm _before the night would turn into a watery, scary thunderstorm. His eyes reminded her of the calm before the storm.

She looked away. Averting her eyes to something different – to the walls – to the hangnail that was on her right thumb – to a loose string on the worn out sweater – to the mark that laid teasingly against his forearm.

It was almost _hypnotizing_ it was. It almost made her question why he had got it in the first place. She wondered – why the scar hadn't faded, why it hadn't disappeared as easily as the amount of Death Eaters that went into hiding – that had went into Azkaban. But instead she got infuriated, the sensation tingled against her palms as it crawled all the way _up_ – _up_ – _up_ and right to the back of her neck and she shivered.

She shivered and he noticed.

She shivered and he had the audacity to smirk. But before she could say anything, before she could start talking and tell him he wasn't welcome here, his voice echoed in the room—

"I don't really have much time for you incessant silence, Granger. I'm rather busy, you see, since it's almost time to go back to _Hogwarts_."

With a quick motion – with a quick, angry scream, the mug that was on her bedside table flew right to his head. He was too quick, too aware and with a flick of his wand he had shielded himself – deflected the oncoming potion and we both watched as it shattered against the ground. The blue, almost periwinkle – like the dress she wore to the Yule Ball – pooled at the ground. The green shards from the mug splattered everywhere.

She grimaced at him.

"Now, now, _now_," Malfoy tsked and took a step forwards, his long legs avoiding the shards of glass. He smirked at her now and his eyes – his calm eyes changed. Hermione couldn't help but wonder what it was that changed, but she would already know the answer. He was annoyed with her.

He continued, "Why is it that when I've come with a letter for you, I get a potion thrown at my head? Your seemingly stupid _muggle_ ways of letting out anger is _clearly _barbaric."

She shut her eyes tightly and started counting to ten. _One—_

"Maybe it's because you're surprised to see that it was me—"

_Two—_

"—but the people working here had told me you were expecting me. So, you must have known—"

_Three—_

"—were you expecting someone different?"

_Four—_

"—perhaps you were expecting _Saint Potter_ and his side-kick, _Weasel King_?"

Hermione's body was hot – an ear splitting pounding had found its way and had taken hostage of her brain. She should of known better – _he was Draco_ – he wanted to see a rise out of Hermione. But what he didn't expect was that she had got off her itchy, lumpy, St Mungo's bed and hopped straight into the shards of glass, wincing at the say time she yelled – faltering in her step with a pain-stricken face – _FLIPPENDO!_

Draco Malfoy knocked back into the door, his head hitting the wooden frame as he slid to the ground. He watched Hermione as she took a few more steps into the glass, blood trickling from her feet as she started talking – wincing and letting out little whimpers as she struggled.

"How _dare _you, Draco Malfoy!" She yelled, falling in front of him.

Her hair was unkempt and the sweater she was wearing smelled of grass in the spring time and campfires in the night. It was too big – too big for her – and it made her feel at home. She glowered at him, her once warm body that was radiating the room was now cold – it was now numb and it was his entire fault.

"—You don't understand, do you?" She managed to not make any sense and it completely bewildered Draco Malfoy as he struggled to get up from the ground. There were people knocking at the door and alarmed voices echoed faintly through to her room. "You don't understand what we went through. What Harry, or myself – even Ron – what we went through. Now you're here and I don't want you to be. Because I don't think you'll ever learn. Because I don't think you'll ever understand. You'll never understand how things were for us"

The door was open now and Draco was just a few inches away from the open door, breathing heavily. It was frantic, really, his breathing. His chest heaved up and down, struggling for air. Trying to grasp what had just happened. What Hermione had just said to him. _He wouldn't get it. He'll never understand it._ **What did that mean?**

His hair was now disheveled and there was potion stains on his shirt and all he did was look at her. His eyes, they were swimming with something she didn't understand. Something she did not want to understand.

"Listen, Granger." He said hoarsely, choppy, "Things – aren't – always – what – they – seem."

_What did that mean?_


	2. Chapter 1

I've been watching a lot of _Charmed_ lately and that is besides the point. Can you go to an AA meeting for this sort of thing? I have no clue, but I just needed to write because I'm literally the most excited person for this story. I just hope that some of you will get excited seeing my writing get updated. Because I do love writing this. This is something I've never done before, it's out of my box, and I'm enjoying it.

**I hope you enjoy it as well!**

Oh, right! Thank you to the people who left reviews! I'm still trying to understand how this site works. :-)

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CHAPTER ONE

**OOO**

The room is small, beige and quite quaint. There were already stacks of written on parchment and a quill resting in its ink. The large desk reminded her of her dressers at home – cherry wood oak – and the smell of patchouli and sunflower filled her nostrils as she grazed her thumb across the top of a beautifully sculpted teacup.

A window was open and just beyond the trees, that were the Forbidden Forest, you could see the sun setting just behind the horizon. It was beautiful. The clouds were pink and orange and a hue of blue was transparent as the sky filled with bright yellows and gorgeous oranges and hypnotizing pinks.

Hermione stirred the delicately intricate spoon in her cup, the caramel color of her tea swirling in circles like a small tsunami, taking notice of her surroundings – of all the paintings and pictures and the frame that held Albus Dumbledore just above the Headmistress's head.

A grin formed on Hermione's lips as she moved a lose strand of hair behind her ear. She felt at ease here, smelling the incense, and all her worries seemed to disappear. She was finally back at a home where she _truly _belonged.

Professor McGonagall put her cup of tea down and pressed her lips together in a tight, small smile. It was warm, to Hermione, it was a smile she hadn't seen ever since Hogwarts had been struck with panic and disarray.

"My dear," The Professor spoke finally after clearing her voice. Behind her, and just above her head, Professor Dumbledore took the liberty of bowing and giving her a smile. "I don't want to take you away from your studies only a few days in the semester. But I must ask you a favor—"

"A favor?" Hermione asked quietly, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Yes, Miss. Granger, a favor." Professor McGonagall was sick, Hermione could tell. She was clearing her voice too much, too quickly. It was hoarse. "It's not a favor that will put you in _mortal danger_. I'm just asking for a small part of your time for your brilliant mind."

"My…, brilliant mind…, oh, Professor! You flatter me _too much_." Hermione's cheeks had flushed red and they were burning. "But what do you mean…, a small part of my time?"

"It seems the Ministry wants a few others of the graduating Hogwarts students to write a piece on their time here at Hogwarts." She answered back, her thumbs running against the edge of her fine china. "I've brought you here today so I can kindly ask you to write a paper on your time here as well, _the good and the bad_. Although I don't truly believe things are always black and white."

Hermione's mind backtracked when t started coming up with a thousand questions a minute. It was horrible and it caused an irritating pulse to throb at the side of her temple. She rubbed it, trying to soothe it, trying to calm the irritation that was threatening to give her a migraine. But it ached and it started running down her skull and to her neck. She rubbed the nape of her neck and closed her eyes tightly.

Opening her eyes again, she saw a glint of worry pass through the Headmistress' eyes.

"Professor," Hermione's voice was quiet, and a bit shy. She was never forthcoming about her adventures, the events that happened at Hogwarts. They were strictly her memories. "What is it that you want me to write about?"

Minerva McGonagall stayed quiet for a few moments, clearly deliberating, Hermione took notice. The old Professor swept her hands over her tight, grey bun that had different colored ribbons woven in it and smiled at Hermione who had sat back and quietly sipped at her fast-cooling tea.

"I want you to write whatever you desire, Hermione. After all, it's your paper and your memories from Hogwarts that are up for you to share. Don't be choosey and least of all, don't be picky. That is the least I can ask from you. I would much rather you include the good and the bad. I would hate for you to sugar-coat things."

"I think I got it." She cleared her voice and scratched at her scalp and stood up, "The good – the bad – and no sugar-coating things, there's always an inbetween. I think I could have this done _sooner_ than later."

The Professor waved her hand as if pardoning Hermione and said, "Take the time you need. After all, you have a _normal _year here at Hogwarts. Enjoy it, Miss. Granger. Surely this will not affect your studies?"

"No, Ma'am." Hermione drawled, kicking her foot at the back of her other heel, her blush oxfords bright against her soft, summer tights. "Thank you, Professor. I won't let you down."

With a goodbye and another gulp of tea, Hermione wiped her mouth and headed down the stairs – only to turn back to say goodbye to her old Headmaster who was already talking intently to the newest Headmistress.

Heel, toe, heel, toe – _tap, tap, tap _– heel, toe, heel, toe –

She turned down the stairs; her hands running along the fine granite of the enchanted stairs and all the way down to the entrance, opening up the huge doors that led outside, and off she went.

The air seemed sweeter here. Like she was in an apple orchard and was running around aimlessly to find her favorite apples – the red's, and the yellows, and even the granny smith apples tempted her – she didn't have a favorite and that's why it was an aimless search.

But she couldn't pinpoint the exact time she had gotten to the tree, by the lake. She couldn't remember her feet pounding down the sidewalk, down the grass, and give up once she reached her destination. She saw the grass stains on her tights, but she didn't care. All she felt was this dizziness residing in her head, and her heart beat loudly against her chest. It echoed in her ears, throbbed against her wrists, and pounded nosily against her temples. The throbbing in her head was not subsiding; it was getting harder and shorter like a staccato of notes in a piece of music.

She gulped down air and pulled a piece of parchment from her bag she had been carrying.

The wind was blowing lightly and the grass was cool against her skin. Her cloak, sprawled out beneath her, and the wool of her skirt brushed up at her thighs, leaving her legs to gather goose bumps against the creamy flesh.

Staring at the old piece of parchment, she noticed that it was yellowing. It even had stains around the edges that she could only assume was spilled water from one of the boys – from Ron – the day they had come back with exciting news that wasn't very exciting at all. It was in the morning and they had been so excited; and she had been so busy trying to finish an essay for Snape's class. Luckily she was packing her unused paper by the time they got there.

She grimaced.

Harry hadn't even sent a single letter to her. He hadn't checked up on her to see if she was okay; and Ron never would. He hated sending letters, she knew that. But he wouldn't be _able _to now. She didn't want to remember.

She hated remembering that she wouldn't hear his voice again.

Neither of their voices.

"Looks like McGonagall asked a favor from you to?"

Draco Malfoy looked handsome; his eyes were sparkling – just like the day in that St. Mungo's room. He was wearing a white shirt with long sleeves, and a Slytherin green tie lose around his neck and had his book bag over one shoulder while he carried a Divination textbook. Both sleeves were rolled down.

"Did she offer you tea as well and give you the whole _big_ speech about how things aren't always black and white?"

"No," She said, staring at him. "Not the black and white speech that she gave you."

He put his bag down, right beside her and leaned against the tree. His skin was shining, even as the sun was going down and she was reminded of Harry for a brief, minuscule moment. Her breath hitched and she looked down at her legs, looking at her pasty white thighs that seemed much bigger than other girls. She ran her fingers over them, absentmindedly, and Draco cleared his voice.

"Want to know why?" He asked amusement in his voice.

She played along but stared at the black lake; the giant squid even welcomed her by pointing out one of its tentacles and pulled down a bird that was flying just above it. Even the lake wanted the sunset to be reflected against it, as if welcoming the sun's warmth – as if it was getting ready for a chilled night.

"Why didn't she give me the speech, _Malfoy_?"

"The answer_, dear Granger_, is that because it's simply you."

"What do you mean simply me?" She cocked her head, crossing her arms over her chest. Even then she could feel her skirt brush up against her thighs again. She shuddered and quickly let her arms fall to her sides. "Enlighten me, Malfoy."

"Like right or wrong, Granger." He said and shrugged, "You always do the right things. You're predictable."

"Like you always do the wrong things?" She countered, looking up at him. "_You're_ predictable."

"But again, _things aren't always black and white_." He sat down beside her, not very close – but still close enough to make her scar itch. "I guess she doesn't want things from one radical from another. She wants an inbetween, from what I can tell."

"I don't always do the right things, you know." She admitted quietly, after time to think carefully about her words. She stayed quiet for another moment and cocked her head to look at him. He was listening and, truthfully, she didn't want to continue. She didn't know why she did. "Sometimes I say the wrong things at the wrong times; and do the wrong things at _terrible_ times. I'm an awful liar and – and if I could turn back time I would."

"Where would you go?" He asked suddenly, and as if he knew better he cleared his voice and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "If you _could_, I mean."

She cleared her voice and sucked in her bottom lip, her brows furrowing. "Why are you here?"

"I don't know." He admitted carefully, standing up and gazed down at her. His skin was chilled now that the sun had gone down and twilight set upon them. He cleared his voice and grabbed his bag, "Don't know why I'm wasting time hanging 'round you."

Before he could take more than a few steps away from her, she stood up and grabbed her bag.

"Do you know what I would do, Malfoy?" She yelled to him.

He didn't want to stop walking.

He didn't want to listen to her voice. He didn't want to listen to her talk.

But he was paralyzed, suddenly. He couldn't move.

"_Enlighten me_, for this brief moment." Draco snarled smugly, "What could Hermione Granger possibly want to do if she had the ability to go back in time?"

She grinned sarcastically at him, the words at the tip of her tongue. "I want Voldemort to roll over in his grave, that sadistic bastard. We've all had something taken because of him. That much you know."

He winced at the name, looking at her bewildered and questioned her sanity at this very moment. He didn't dare answer, he didn't want to. If that made him a coward, he was in fact – a coward. Malfoy quickly turned on his heel, muttering a goodbye and finally sprinting up the hill away from Hermione Granger who was left alone.

Hermione had wanted to be alone, in the first place. Even when Malfoy was here and was persistent to get a rise from her. But now, that he was gone – she was alone. Not like she cared about him, no. She wouldn't be able to care about him after everything she's gone through from people with that – the Dark mark – on his forearm.

Her sanity was marked on her wrist. Imprinted, scarred – _mudblood, mudblood, mudblood_ – she had muddy blood, dirty blood. She didn't belong in a place like the Malfoy's Manor. Why had it been so ironic – someone with such pureblood had been willing to spill the dirtiest of bloods on the floor of one the most prestigious?

But in Malfoy's case, that mark, that fowl, awful mark was a sense of pride, of entitlement.

So why was Hermione not able to differentiate the two now? Obviously she knew better. She knew a lot of things. She convinced herself of a lot of things.

She was alone.

Eerily, and drastically alone. No one was around. No voices, no static from electrical circuits. The water, in the lake, had come to a standstill. The wind stopped blowing. There was not even a single rustle coming from the tree just above her.

She stood still, straining to hear, straining to listen.

It was so goddamn quiet and she couldn't figure out why she hated it so goddamn much.


	3. Chapter 2

SO MUCH EXCITEMENT FOR THIS STORY, MAINLY BY ME. BUT OH WELL. Just wanted to say to the people who read this, that it means a lot to me. I'm really inspired lately, and I like updating this.

I do hope you enjoy this chapter. You can review, if you like. I won't mind.

I'll give you a big hug if you do.

PS. Also planning to post a _new _Tomione story. So if you're interested, stay tuned. ;-)

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CHAPTER TWO

**OOO**

The dungeon's were cool and made a chill crawl up Hermione's spine. It erupted down her arms and made the ends of her fingertips tingle. It almost felt like someone had casted a spell behind her back, and made her skin tingle, and itch uncontrollably. She was almost uncertain as to why, but when she looked over her shoulder, it seemed all eyes were on here.

It made her skin prickle and a certain cast of uneasiness settled in her stomach's lining. It twisted and churned and all she could think of was, how many eyes were on here. She decided to look down at the ground, watching her blush oxfords tap along the dungeon floor. She was always used to people staring and hushed chatter in the distance; but that was only because of who she was with. It was never about her, and the only time it was, was back in the fourth year where Viktor Krum asked her to the Yule Ball and she had said yes.

She was wearing her Gryffindor colored wool skirt, with a long, white sleeved shirt that was tucked under the waistband of her bottom attire. She ground out and bit the inside of her lip, hearing an uproar of laughter, and scurried into the Potion's classroom.

Unluckily for her, Professor Slughorn was sitting in his chair at his desk. The room smelt of smoke, and burnt metal. The room itself was dark and cold, leaving an almost wet feeling against her skin. At least the curtains were drawn open, a charm, she guessed, made the room appear brighter than what it normally was. Maybe, it appeared brighter this time because Professor Slughorn was _not _Professor Snape. Professor Snape always had the curtains drawn shut, and talked in a slow, low, commanding drawl.

Finding an empty spot, near the front, she slid into her seat and brought out that same parchment of paper she had the day before.

Licking her lips, she cupped one side of her face and stared at the yellowing piece of paper. It had been blank for much too long, but she couldn't come up with something to write about – something to create for the wizarding world to read. Hermione didn't know if she wanted people to know her inner thoughts, and some of her fond memories that she kept hidden – that she treasured because they were hers, and hers alone.

It felt like an invasion of privacy.

_"Listen; listen,_ just before we get to our potions!"

"—mind if I sit here, Granger? All the others are taken."

"You should have arrived sooner, then." Hermione remarked, staring at her Professor, "Maybe if you quit snogging Parkinson in the hall, you would get here on time and wouldn't have to sit beside someone like me."

"Don't have a choice now, do I?" Malfoy sneered and pulled the stool up beside her.

She sighed heavily, and he suddenly chuckled. "What makes you think I was with Pansy?"

"You're conjoined at the hip." She put it simply and shrugged.

He smirked, "Well, you're wrong you know."

Then he stood up and went to the cabinet to get the ingredients that we needed to brew with.

"These are ingredients for a blood-replenishing potion." Draco mumbled, sitting back down, furrowing his eyebrows. "Why would we be brewing a blood-replenishing potion?"

Hermione smirked, and a small laugh escaped her lips. "If Hagrid's teaching Care of Magical Creatures, I'm sure you'll need it sooner than later."

"You're very _funny_, Granger." He replied sarcastically and begun chopping at a steadily pace.

"The instructions say not to do that." Hermione inquired from the book, watching him intently. His fingers were tight around the knife and the ingredients had been finely chopped and he mixed two of the ingredients in the cauldron.

In the cauldron, the liquid turned a pale red before he added the final ingredient, turning the spoon round in circles; and watching it turn into a deep red before he filled a vile of it up and put a label on it. Both the initials of his name and her name were scrawled out into perfect lettering.

Draco turned to look at her, "I'm fairly good at Potions, Granger. Don't look so horrified."

She shook her head, and turned away, "You didn't even ask for my help."

"You seemed to enjoy staring at me while I worked."

"I didn't – I _don't _– stare, Malfoy!" Hermione rose briskly in her seat and turned her head away from him. "Especially not at _slimy _snake like you."

"But you'd much rather get bitten by a lion?"

She turned back at him, confusion swept her features, "W-What?"

"Snakes can be harmless." He said matter-of-factly, "But if you're stuck with a lion, it knows no boundaries, it cannot be tamed."

**OOO**

In the Great Hall, there was a copious amount of food in front of her. For some reason, she had a sour taste in her mouth; and whatever she tried to eat, would come back out in a napkin. So, lamely, and sloppily, she pulled out a piece of parchment and her quill – she was going to try and start McGonagall's paper – and bumped her elbow on her goblet full of pumpkin juice.

The orange liquid spilled over her lap, drenching her pants, and her robes, and the piece of paper that was luckily unwritten on. But she couldn't help the loud, frustrated whine that escaped her lips. Her eyes were downcast and gaze strictly on the spill, as she heard laughter erupt from her table.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Harry was here – he would help her, by hiding her from the view of people – or even Ron. Ron would be so inclined to make a joke out of Hermione's situation that he would make her feel less embarrassed than how she really felt; and somehow, that was one of _his _greatest strengths.

Maybe even if Neville was here as well, he would give her his cloak to hide the mess on the front of her pants. He would even wrap his arm around her shoulder, comfortingly and joke about how _it wasn't him this time._ Even Ginny, she would glare at people who snickered – she was _so _protective of Hermione and vice versa – and she would threaten them with a few hexes that would _accidentally _slip her tongue.

But she was alone now. Completely alone.

Still – more laughter – now that she was by herself she wondered why she had ever come back in the first place. She was obviously alone, and no one felt the need to go up and talk to her. They hadn't even bothered her, not even asking a simple question out of their curiosity. They just looked, they stared, and they seemed to be waiting for something, for anything. Like they were just standing their, gawking at her, waiting for her to mess up, waiting for her to _finally _break.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek rather harshly, flinching when she tasted blood. Standing up with the same harsh, rude flare, the goblet's surrounding her tipped over and pumpkin juice had weaved it's way into an orange, aroma-filled, puddle. It even seeped into some of the cracks in the wooden table.

Walking out of the hall, with her bag in hand, she stumbled against her feet. Muttering curse words, she sat on the steps and pulled down her shirt so it would hide the pumpkin juice that was going to stain her clothes. She grimaced and placed her hands over her eyes, resting her elbows on her thighs.

She couldn't cry.

She _wouldn't _cry.

Hermione was much tougher than this. She _had _to be tougher than this.

But why did it feel so hard?

It felt so hard to even stand, to even walk to classes, it was hard to get to sleep. Everything that happened, that she went through, haunted her dreams. She looked like an absolute nutter. The potions she had stopped talking had repercussions; and the once endless black void in her sleep state was now filled with countless terrors, demons, and those same bloodied memories.

The _memory of Ron_ pushing her, jumping in front of her – _how dare he_ – and risking himself for her –_ how dare he_ –and dueling so blissfully graceful that it was repugnant. That it made her wince, and scream for him to stop, to move, to get out of the way, that _she _could handle this. That she wouldn't be able to cope if something would have happened to him.

Something did – _how dare he _– and she watched his eyes turn black, his eyes losing life, and his soul escaping his body – where did it go, where did ron go, and why wasn't he her to make her feel better?

_How dare he_.

Why wasn't he here to reassure her that it wasn't her fault that he had risked his own life for hers? She was _nothing _compared to him. She wouldn't be remembered. He could have had a life, a great life, with _so _many kids to make his own mother happy, so incredibly happy—

She would not cry.

But—

_How fucking dare he._

A sob echoed her mind—she couldn't be crying. She couldn't feel the tears roll down her face. She wasn't crying.

No, but she was. It was horrible, because she was, and she couldn't stop. She just trembled and heaved, and tried to swallow so much air – so that she could breathe – because her _fucking _lungs weren't cooperating. That she was just going to pass out from asphyxiation. She promised that she wouldn't cry anymore after the funeral. That when she cried, and clutched onto George's arm as she cried – she cried so hard – and there was just so much _crying_. She didn't want to cry anymore. Not for him. Never for him. But it always _because _of him. Because she had loved him, so much, and she had such little time with him. Seven years was not enough. It wouldn't ever be enough. Not for her. She wanted him a lifetime.

There was just too much loss, _so much_ lost in the battle. For this _fucking _battle over one sadistic maniac. She wanted to _hurt _him. She wanted to make him squirm, and be horrified of _her_; like she had been horrified of _him. _She wanted to carve '_mudblood' _into his wrist—no, she would write '_bastard_'. Because that was what he is, _what he was_.

"Her-my-oh-nee."

Her head shot up and she wiped her hands over her eyes and stood up, turning her back away from him.

"You always show up at the wrong times." She stated, bitterly, her voice hoarse.

His steps echoed with hers on the stairs. "Am I being inconvenient?"

"You're _being_ a nuisance."

"And you're acting like it's the end of the_ fucking_ world." He spat back.

She turned around and pointed her wand at his throat. Her eyes were hard, and watery, and she trembled. Why did he have to show up and make her feel like utter crap? Why did he have to show up and have his pretentious aura ooze off him?

His hair was a bit messier than it was in Potion's class earlier today. Then she suddenly realized that he was wearing his Quidditch uniform. Malfoy's cheeks were red and his shoulders were moving up and down, his breath coming out silent—but heavy—and his eyes seemed to sparkle, something bright, something light—something sad.

Her ears turned red, and she stomped on his foot. He mumbled a few curses as he bounced from one foot to the other and she glared at him.

"What was that for!?"

"For—for—_for_—"

"Listen, Granger, and listen to me closely because I won't have you hitting me every goddamn time you see _fit_." He spat, glaring up at her, equally as cold as hers. "You're thinking is becoming delusional. The other day, when you told me about…," he cleared his voice, lowering it into a hush, "about the Dark Lord, I had written you off as _crazy_. Because he is dead, Granger, he is gone. I wanted to tell Professor McGonagall, even that old goof, Professor Slughorn!"

"Why do you even care?" She muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

He shrugged, clearing his voice, "You could get people killed acting recklessly like that."

She slumped down into herself, her eyebrows furrowed; they shot up in a frown. "Such a pity that you can't even say the name of someone you followed, even if he is dead."

"Are you _serious _right now, Granger?"

"Yes, I am a _hundred percent_ serious and _in the_ _right _state of mind. Because it doesn't make sense that you're here, talking me to me. You can't stand me, Malfoy. You're being inconsiderate about my feelings, about how I feel." She took a step closer to him, her eyes shooting lightning into his; she didn't understand why she just didn't walk away. "Look real closely, Malfoy. Listen real close, because I haven't forgotten—I haven't forgotten what _you people _did to the ones that I loved. Look in the mirror Malfoy, because you're the one who has the _Dark Mark_ on your arm, not me."

He choked, he choked and all I did was watch as he tried to come up with something to say. He stumbled and his words came out tangled and twisted, and messily. It reminded her of his hair right now. Windswept from being in the air, on his broom, practicing for the opening games soon, she guessed.

"Don't you think I would have killed you by now?" He asked, looking away from her. He couldn't even look into her eyes as he mumbled, as he asked, as he questioned her with that stupid threat. He turned away from her. "The world doesn't revolve around you and your sadness, Granger. It's almost as if you don't remember anything that has happened. _We're all children of war._ Things don't exactly work out the way you plan them. But things do happen, and people do change—

He was at the bottom step now; he turned his head and sneered at her.

"—even if they do have a _fucking_ Dark Mark on their forearm. The world isn't divided into good and evil, Granger. Do remember that the next time you decide to be so _obtuse_."


	4. Chapter 3

Things are finally coming along, and everyday I feel more and more inspired to continue to write this story. I'm enjoying how things are coming together, and I hope you enjoy it to. Thank you for the love, thus far. I wish I could bake you guys cookies or something. Something to show my appreciation.

New chapter! Hope you enjoy.

Reviews are welcomed.

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CHAPTER THREE

**OOO**

Hermione scrubbed her skin, with a rough, weathered wash cloth. It was grating and it felt like she was rubbing her skin off, rubbing it irritable and sensitive. She had taken the time and scrubbed each part of her body separately, taking far too long to shower. But she was far too annoyed, far too _aggressive _and much too sad to even cope with how she was feeling.

How was she feeling?

She hadn't really thought about these types of things when Ron's funeral was over. All she knew was that she was _sad, sad, sad_. It was almost unbearable for people to ask her about it. She was just so unable, _so forlorn,_ to speak.

That when she dreamt, she dreamt of Ron. She dreamt about the _Resurrection Stone_, and how she found it one day – in one of Harry's old cloak's whilst washing laundry for _all three _of them to return to Hogwarts freshly primed. It was a dream, a horrible dream that left her craving, wanting. It left her hungry for desire.

But when Hermione asked Harry about the stone, Harry said he didn't know where it was. That he had lost it on his way to fight Voldemort. That's when Hermione _accused_ him of lying. That is when her dreams, turned sour, dull, into a timeless nightmare. She cursed her dreams, thwarted by them, and became terribly indecisive on what she wanted.

She was going to go back to _her _home.

But she didn't have a home or a family anymore.

She laughed indignantly. Poor, lovely, Mrs. Weasley would definitely argue with her about the last statement. But even if she did offer Hermione a place to stay, she couldn't take her up on that offer. She couldn't be reconciled. Not yet, not now, not when the wound was still gaping and itching.

The water was getting cold, she had used all the water, and now her skin was freezing, abandoned of all the warmth. Turning the water off, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her petite body. The room was all steamed up, and the condensation on the mirror was making small, wet marks run down the sleek cold mirror.

Hermione's fingers slid down the mirror, rubbing it clean. She stared at herself, for one moment, two moments and then looked away, settling back into her shared dormitory room, and changed quickly.

There was a vacant bed, beside hers, which was Ginny's. Why hadn't she come back, and why did the red-head leave her to be all by herself? No letters, _never any letters._ She could stand being ignored, left alone – but it was eating her alive, _being lonely_. It was eating her from the inside out.

She had to be strong.

She had to wear her heart on her sleeve.

She _needed _to take a walk.

**OOO**

Hermione pulled on an oversized jumper, and stuffed her oxfords on, and opened the door to her room. She tried to be very silent, but the tapping against the hard, granite floor made it hard for her to be as quiet as she wanted.

Blush oxfords tapped down the hall once she got out of the Gryffindor common room. She wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself, trying to keep herself warm. She went down another hall, turned left and dared to use, "_Lumos"_, to brighten the place.

The shadows of the paintings in their frames were sound asleep, muttering at her to '_turn off the goddamned light'_.

Her wet hair was dripping down her back as she racked her freehand through the mess of her curls, walking into a moonlit corridor. She muttered, "_Nox_", and took an eager step forward into the light. It washed over her, silently, quietly, _loving_. It almost felt like she needed to be here, for some reason. That she needed to stand in the moon's light, and stare at the full moon.

That standing here, under the tranquil light, somehow washed all her sorrows away. It quieted her mind, made her shoulders slump in a relaxed manner, and – she just stared out the window – she didn't even notice someone watching her from the other side of the hall.

Her hair was wet, and the back of her sweater was damp and dark grey where the water touched. She wore slouched baby pink shorts, and something, somehow, seemed so utterly incomprehensible that she couldn't resolve herself. That it was impossible for her to get over this—this thing that buried itself deep inside her chest.

It was like a raging forest fire, it engulfed each part of her body slowly. It was nothing like she had ever felt before, and it made her writhe in fear that she had gone mad—_crazy_—that no one would understand how she felt, and why she felt that way.

She couldn't understand how there was a time where she had been so incredibly happy, and now she was standing here alone with blistering thoughts, like a rusted, serrated knife cutting into her wrists. She couldn't understand how the world worked, and how she had been _so _happy one moment; and the next, she doesn't understand a single thing that she's doing.

A low howl echoed the distance from outside the castle; it was quiet enough that it made her spine tingle and erupt coarse gooseflesh on her arms. Hermione grimaced, and wrapped her arms around her waist. She leaned forward, the open windows blowing the cold September air inside the castle.

It made her cheeks, hot and red, cool down vigorously. It almost reminded her of the days she stepped out of the cozy, warm, interior of the castle; and into a winter wonderland—a whirlwind of snow, bright and beautiful, white and _blinding_—on the trips to Hogsmeade right before Christmas.

Her eyes twinkled in the sliver of silver, and sighed almost transfixed—curious, wonderstruck, _daydreaming_—and wanted to know what she would be like a few months down the road. Would she feel better about everything? Would she feel better that Harry Potter, her _best friend_, did not come back to school with her? What about Ginny, who hadn't had the decency to write a _single letter _despite telling her friends that she _didn't want them? _What about Neville, simply sweet, charming, _cozily plain _Neville?

She continued walking after a long while, not wanting to leave the moonlight. But it seemed that there had been windows everywhere she had gone to. It was almost as if Hogwarts wanted the castle to be more _open_, and _light,_ and let it be known that the dark times were over. That the place itself, wasn't four white walls, trapping people inside, making them go _mental_.

Hermione stopped and place her palms against a jagged wall, peering out the window, staring at the courtyard. She didn't know she had travelled this far into the castle, and the pictures on the walls became lesser and lesser, and she wondered why that could be.

"Ms. Granger," The voice spoke, deliberately slow and low and most enticing, _almost captivating_, "Out for a little walk… _in the moonlight_?"

She spun around, her damp hair whipping her face, sticking to her lips. Her previous question getting answered.

"Professor Snape!" She almost bellowed, relief and almost happiness, but _complete sadness _filled the insides of her stomach. It lurched and she shivered, "Why aren't you in the Headmistress' office?"

"It seems that…, my _extracurricular activities_ outside of Hogwarts had not landed me a spot in such a _glorified place_."

"But sir…," Hermione bit the inside of her mouth, "You _helped _Harry in the end."

"Ms. Granger," He spoke carefully a sarcastic tone lingering, "If I may be so inclined to ask…, why are you here?"

His portrait seemed so peculiar, so insanely accurate despite his hair. It had been painted shorter, and he almost looked younger. Professor Snape's portrait looked _tired_ and helpless, and the purple bags under his black eyes. He even avoided her eyes, ignoring what she had just said completely.

"I…," Hermione began, and bit the inside of her mouth. Her stomach lurched once more, as if something bad was going to happen—that he might mock her right then and there if she were to speak what's on her mind—and she stayed quiet. With a shrug of her shoulders, she looked down and away from him, "I'm not sure."

"Surely, Ms. Granger, you _aren't _lying to me." He spoke again, "Because you do, as I understand, take _pride _in being an insufferable know-it-all. But as I remember, you're _very _stubborn."

"Sir," She spoke sarcastically, crossing her arms over her chest, "I see no _reason _in being ashamed of being an _insufferable know-it-all_. In fact, I take _great _pride in knowing that I've done great things here at Hogwarts."

"Then why do you feel so obligated to mope around the school, sad _and _alone, when you've done these _great _things, Ms. Granger?"

She stilled, and rubbed her eyes. She was getting tired, and she was right about taking a walk. She just didn't know if she was right about talking to Professor Snape, someone who clearly despised her even in the afterlife.

"The war," She spoke quietly, "It's changed me. It _changes _people, Professor."

"Well, well, well—"

She turned her head quickly, whipping her wand from out of her sleeve and casted a spell—"_STUPEFY"_—it was so quick that she didn't even think of her repercussions—that she couldn't think of who it was, who could have been standing there. It could have been a professor, the Headmistress, even the caretaker, Mr. Filch.

Hermione had fallen over too; she noticed her head was spinning, accidentally scraping her elbow on the rugged wall. Getting on her knees, and crawling over dizzily, and almost nauseous, she stopped in front of the person.

Listening to Proffesor Snape criticize her about how there would have been _better _spells to use in this case. She ran her fingers shakily over the boy's forehead, wiping his shimmering white-blond hair from his eyes. She stopped, and her mouth dropped agape. She could feel her lungs halt, and her stomach burn. She couldn't breathe as she _realized _who it was. The uneasiness that settled in her stomach, made her flinch backwards and, again, she drew out her wand. Her stomach lurched, and her breathing was becoming raspy, and her vision blurred—and she told herself she wouldn't cry, she couldn't cry—because he had come to kill her.

She pointed it directly at his chest. Her fingers tightened against the wood of her wand—10 3/4 inches long, made of vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core—trembling, uneasily.

"Put that thing down, Granger, before you kill someone with it!" He said through difficult breathes; he eased himself up against the wall a few feet away from where he was originally standing, and brushed his hair from his face.

Hermione Granger, who was now hidden from the moonlight, stared and studied Draco Malfoy. His eyes were squinting and his nose was scrunched up like he had heard a ridiculous joke, and his free hand was cupping the back of his neck. Professor Snape stayed silent, and she wish he hadn't.

"You've come to kill me, haven't you?"

But those weren't the words she had wanted to say—"_you're hurt, aren't you"_—and now that the look of contempt crossed over his features, he pushed himself off the ground and winced. He was hurt and it was all her fault. She was flabbergasted, and the words that wanted to come out, just _fucking_ wouldn't and it frustrated her.

"I—I didn't see you, you know." She muttered, her attempt at an apology was going unnoticed. He still struggled to get up. "I was—I was just out—and, and,_ and_—I'm never out, you see, I mean _barely_. At least, not _by myself_, I was always usually with Ron or Harry, or the both of them. I—I got frightened, and I didn't think it was you—_I wasn't thinking at all_."

"Maybe you should start thinking." He stated, and she noticed that he had stood still through her whole ramble. He had stood tall and waited as patiently as he could. She wondered if he watched her in amusement, just because she _didn't _know what to say, _how _to apologize.

She nodded, her head hurting, her eyes tired, and the sticky blood that had settled around her forearm was now drying and sticking to her sweater—and she _hated _that feeling—making her involuntarily shiver from the invisible chill that ran down her spine, attacking the wound.

A laugh escaped his lips. It was not hollow, or menacing, or _revolting_. It seemed, _exasperated_, and something had _finally _broke in him to give him the privilege of laughing out loud at the most inane thing. His head tiltled back, and his shoulders moved up and down—_up, down, up, down_—and he just _wouldn't stop laughing._ Hermione didn't know what to do, and she thought she had _finally _broken Malfoy. That whatever she did, had made him finally tip over the top of the volcano and plummet into its depths.

But like many other times, he had caught himself—he had stopped the frivolous laughter and squinted at her—and it almost seemed like she had seen a _hidden _part of him that maybe he wouldn't show to anyone except his closest mates. He looked up carefully, griping the wall for support. His hands had been mucked with dirt, and his nails had been chipped and they weren't as perfect and finely manicured as she once thought them to be.

His fingers went through his hair, pulling at his locks, "You're _stupidly ridiculous_, Granger, even for a _muggleborn_."

"I'm probably the _only_ muggleborn you _know _to despise." She tried standing up, only to falter in her step. "I did try and apologize, Draco." She said slowly, softly, and barely above a whisper. "I—I don't understand what you're doing up at this hour, anyways!"

"—I don't mean to interrupt your _lovers_ quarrel." Snape sounded sarcastically, his arms crossed over his chest. "But I think the two of you should go see Madam Pomfrey. I will go now and alert her of your arrival."

"Look what you've done _now_!" Draco Malfoy spat once the Professor left his painting, rubbing the back of his neck, never letting that hand leave the aching spot. "You've got Snape involved!"

"Obviously he wouldn't have been involved if you hadn't come and try to _scare me_!"

"Didn't you accuse of me…, wanting to kill you just mere seconds ago, Granger?" He sneered, "You're giving me whiplash."

"I could same the same about you!" Hermione pushed past him, "You _fucking _prat!"

"Where are you going?" Malfoy followed along, trying to keep up with her.

"To Madam Pomfrey!" Hermione seethed, shooting a glare at his direction. "My arm is bleeding because of you."

"You were the one that casted the spell—"

"—quiet down, you two! I'm trying to sleep!" The same portrait from before groaned out, teetering back and forth from his sleep state.

**OOO**

When the two of them finally got there, Hermione's fists were balled at her sides and the right sleeve of her sweater was soaked in blood that Madam Pomfrey had to tear the sleeve right off. Hermione frowned at the strands of yarn that had been left and soaked red by the cut. She shut her eyes, wincing as the wound got cleaned up.

Opening her eyes again, slowly and heavily, she caught the sight of Draco staring at her. His eyes, that were once hard and enraged with pain from the spell that she casted; seemed soft and tired and almost like Harry's when Ron and herself were attacking each other at their throats.

"Can you tell me what happened again, Severus?"

Severus yawned, and took a seat in his chair. "It seems that Ms. Granger thought Mr. Malfoy was out to hurt her. I can tell you now, that Ms. Granger is being _simply paranoid_ from the lack of sleep she seems to be getting. Maybe you can brew a potion, to help her sleep—"

"_Please_ don't give me another one of those potions." Hermione said, shaking her head, moving her butt to the otherside of the bed.

She could feel Malfoy staring at her, and she didn't want to look at him—s_ee the enjoyment, the amusement_—she didn't want to see the look in his eyes, knowing that she had gone mad, crazy even.

"They—They don't help." She cleared her voice, "I don't dream—_and, and, and_—they make me feel like I've gone mad because of it. It's just this endless, black void and I can't—I _won't _let you give me them. Not like I did at St Mungo's. Not again."

Professor Snape rolled his eyes, tiredly, and stood up. "You will go mental if you keep wandering around aimlessly, Ms. Granger. I can assure you of that."

"Severus—" Poppy Pomfrey looked at his portrait, "Could it be that she's suffering from post-traumatic stress?"

"It is very likely." Severus spoke through a yawn. "I feel inclined to alert Minerva. I will be back."

"Please—" Hermione spoke, just barely above a whisper. Her eyes were blurry now, so _fucking _blurry and she didn't want to cry, but her eyes, her brown, caramel eyes leaked and stained her cheeks.

"She said she didn't want to take the potion!" His voice, his accent was so thick, that it caused her to flinch. "Why do you feel so obligated to force it down her throat?"

"Mister Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey spoke quietly, "It's to help Hermione get some rest."

"But you heard her! You heard her just as much as I heard her." Draco spoke urgently, "She says it doesn't help. She doesn't need a potion."

"Stop it." Hermione spoke quietly, wiping her eyes, rubbing her nose, she was dizzy—_tired_—so tired. Her tears burned her cheeks and she could barely open her mouth, her voice felt enclosed in a box. It felt like she was trying to shout in the middle of clapping thunder, and sheets of rain falling carelessly against streets. But Draco's voice reminded her of a foghorn, trying to signal her way to safety. She felt, relieved, and curious, and _confused_. _So confused_.

"She needs someone to understand how she feels, Madam." Malfoy's voice got quieter and he seemed to be closer to her, she could feel his presence and it was not cold. It was not radiating anger, and it was not something she knew, she wasn't familiar with this.

"She needs to take the potion, Draco, and that's final."

Her lip trembled and she grabbed hold of her knees, "They don't help. It doesn't help, it _never _helps."

"She's gone completely mental." Draco mumbled quietly, taking a few steps away from her. She felt like she had gotten slapped across the face. He turned his gaze to the portrait Snape was residing in—who now had a smug smile on his old features—and Draco glared. "You can't let her take the potion, sir."

"Feeling sentimental, Draco?" Snape asked, lifting his eyebrows in mock curiosity. "Or has that blow from that rather _pitiful_ spell render you're ability to think properly."

"I _am _thinking properly, _Sir_." Draco remarked, his teeth gritting together. "_Surely _you remember giving _me _those types of potions my sixth year."

"Surely, Draco, you've been knocked in the head." Professor Snape spoke slowly, "Those potions were brewed—"

"Hello, Severus. Hello Madam. Pomfrey, I hope I'm not interrupting." Professor McGonagall spoke urgently, "You needed to discuss something with me that regards Hermione Granger—"

"Professor," Hermione spoke up, trying to keep her eyes from watering—failing miserably—and stared at the lady in her pajama's. "They want me to take a sleeping potion. I—I _don't _want to take a sleeping potion."

The Headmistress stared at Hermione. It was like watching her mother with worry surpassing her features, and ask her where she had been, and why she had come at such a late time. But this was different—Minvera McGonagall was not Hermione's mother. The only authority she had was regarding her behavior, and—or if—she broke the school rules.

"Hermione, you seem to be shaken up." The Headmistress noted, "I'm going to have Madam Pomfrey brew you a sleeping potion, _only _for tonight, to help you get some rest. I can assure you it will be fine, that you'll be feeling much better tomorrow."

"Professor—"

It was Malfoy. His neck had stopped hurting, but there was a bandage on the side of his cheek. She didn't know that's where she had targeted the spell, usually she was rather good at targets.

Professor McGonagall waved him off, taking a step closer to Hermione. "Oh, Draco, you're free now to go back to your room."

"But Professor—"

"Do you have impaired hearing, Malfoy?" Snape chimed in, "Go back to your common room immediately!"

When things had settled, and the room had gone quiet, Hermione sat alone. There was a small window open at the top of the wall she was facing. Hermione could barely see the moon, and wondered if it had been hidden behind the clouds. She wondered if _she _could be hidden. Still, she answered questions with three words or less, and was ultimately taken House Points away from using magic on another student. The potion was brewed and she struggled to take it, wondering if she would get away with sticking her fingers down her throat and making herself sick; just so the potion would not do what it needed.

Professor Snape and Headmistress McGonagall chatted quietly and Hermione strained her ears to hear some of the conversation. Something along the lines of – '_Where is Harry Potter?'_ – and – _'it is most likely a terribly case of post-traumatic stress'_ – she even heard Dumbledore's voice who inclined that – _'Hermione is a strong girl'_ – she didn't feel strong. She felt weak, and if she had much more time to keep crying, she would of cried herself to sleep. In the end she heard Dumbledore speak louder than before – '_I'd like to see how everything plays out in the end'_ – and she didn't understand why he had said that in the first place.

She was on the verge of sleeping, and so helplessly insisted that she would be okay now. That she didn't need the potion. But she ended up drinking the potion because her teachers insisted. She drank all of it, and the liquid tasted bitter, and her sleepy-state consumed her, leading her down a dark, pitch-black hallway. It wasn't until she heard the soft chirping of birds signaling that it was dawn that she was dragged into a numb-inducing, nearly terrifying, eternal black state.


	5. Chapter 4

I wanted to address a comment, that was concerned whether or not, Tom and Hermione fall in love. I have the story planned out and I just need to work out a few kinks here and there. But I promise that you will love Tom and Hermione's relationship in this story. It will be dark, and sensual, and filled with angst-y lust.

I also feel like I should apologize for the long leave of absence, recently. A lot of things have been happening, and I haven't had the time to update. It doesn't help that I have a very bad cold right now, so I apologize if there are any mistakes. I hope you enjoy, nonetheless!

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CHAPTER FOUR

**OOO**

Hermione's tongue peeked out from the corner of her mouth, in attempt to concentrate harder. Her hands were digging in her scalp, nearly pulling her hair from her follicles. The library had a grand selection of books to choose from—and though she loved the smell of old books—the book she was currently reading wasn't granting her any success in information.

For the past few days she had been compiling notes on different books about which ingredients from the different types of potions and how they worked, and what there uses are, and how _she _could create her own potion. Hermione was keeping herself distracted, and buried herself in books, and her homework, and by the time she got back to her bed, she would fall asleep quickly.

But there was so much that she could read from sections that gave her little to no answers at all. She had to figure out how to get into the restricted section without getting caught—and if she could find the right sort of information to successfully brew a potion that might or might not work at all—but she needed to find out more information.

She shut the book, sliding her chair backwards—loudly—causing people to stare at her in almost pathetic sympathy. Her lips went into a downwards grimace, annoyance radiating off of her until she stood up, grabbing her papers and stuffing them in her bag, and left, pushing the door open rather harshly on her way out.

"Yeah right," She mumbled sarcastically, "As if I need anyone's sympathy."

The bushy haired girl moved a piece of hair behind her ear, and stepped into the hallway—ignoring a sleeping Professor Snape on the way out—and weaved her way down the steps , wondering all the while if she should go into the Great Hall or not. The stone walls were high, and the windows made the castle shine bright—and it almost felt _right _that she was here. But it was sullen when she didn't feel the presence on either sides of her. She was so helplessly in her mind that she wavered if she should be here or not—because it didn't make sense that she was here and Ron was not. It didn't make sense that she was here and Harry was somewhere with — avoiding her, probably.

As she edged nearer to the Great Hall doors, she stopped and backtracked. Hermione had taken solace in sleeping in the hospital wing on Madam Pomfrey's request—and had went to bed early enough that she was one of the few who woke up at dawn. She enjoyed the quiet in the morning, and how it wasn't nearly as busy in the Great Hall as it was half an hour later—where there was loud chatter, and bumbling idiots trying to turn there pumpkin juice into rum. It was quiet, and she nearly always had a book to read while she had her porridge and drink a glass of pumpkin juice. After she finished eating, she would maybe sit outside, sometimes, until it was time for her to go back inside and go to class.

She admired the colors in the sky, in early morning—because it wasn't as blue—and it was filled with different colors of purples, and pinks, and pale hues inbetween and it reminded her of the watercolor paintings that her mother collected over the years to put in her small study.

Hermione smiled involuntarily at the memories of her parents. Her shoes tapped down the winding staircase and when she reached the dungeons and the temperature changed drastically, she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

When she got to the Potion's classroom, she took her designated seat—that was in front of the classroom where she could see the chalkboard perfectly—and took the time to pull out her paper full of potion notes, her quill and an inkpot. She sat down in her spot, and crossed her ankles together—swinging them absentmindedly—and studied her notes.

As of old habit, she took a piece of her frizzy hair and twirled it around her finger. She crossed out some of the more non-important ingredients, and in the margins she put small question marks—underlining three times about the importance of them.

The classroom smelled of burnt cauldron, and non-properly brewed potions', and it made Hermione crinkle her nose. The room's supply of potions were strewn everywhere, and it was so unlike Professor Slughorn to _not _be organized for his classes'.

"Ah!"

Hermione's head shot back, and she let out a sigh of relief, "Professor Slughorn, good morning!"

"Good morning, Miss. Granger!" He said happily, strutting along the floor and to his desk, "It is a pleasant surprise seeing you here so early!"

"I had some extra time, sir." She said, and smiled at him before looking down at her notes. "Professor—"

She was silenced by a knock on the door, and footsteps shuffling in place. "Draco, my boy, come in, come in!" The old professor waved his hand, gesturing in the tall boy who was sporting bedhead hair. His blonde locks disheveled, and his skin splotchy—and it almost looked like he hadn't slept—with the purple bags under his eyes. "Sorry, Miss. Granger, what was your question?"

"It can wait." Hermione said defensively, and moved slightly away from Draco who had taken a seat beside her.

"Morning," Draco smiled, and pulled out a blank piece of parchment, taking out his quill, "Do you mind if I snag some of your ink? I seem to have forgotten mine."

She slid her inkpot over begrudgingly, her thumb massaging her temple. He said a small thank you, and then he and Professor Slughorn went to work, helping Malfoy with his work that he hadn't been able to catch up with since quidditch had started.

They both worked silently, the sound of scratching quill against paper filling the deafening silence. Every now and then, Hermione could feel a pair of eyes lay on the side of her head. It was almost defensively, that she folded into herself, trying to protect her from wandering gazes.

"Eyes on your own paper, if you please."

Malfoy cleared his voice, and turned in his seat, "Y-Yes, Professor."

Once the class begun to fill, she had stuffed her papers away into her bag, and brought out new paper—taking a daring look at Draco Malfoy.

A gasp escaped her lips and she turned her head to the front of the room—because why was Draco Malfoy staring at her?—it didn't make any sense, she didn't understand—but she could _feel _that he was looking at her—what was he doing? Why was he studying her like she did books?

It seemed that Professor Slughorn had left the classroom. Draco's books were shut, and the writing on his paper was messily put down – unlike the other time, where his writing was so perfectly scrawled. She shivered, and a small hum escaped Malfoy's lips. Turning her head slightly, she shot him a glare.

"Cat got your tongue, Granger?"

"Can I have my inkpot back, now?" She asked as her foot tapped against the cold stone floor.

"Sure." He replied, sliding it back to her spot. When she reached for it, there hands touched—and for a moment, she thought something went through her, a curse, electricity, _something_—but she quickly moved her hand, taking her inkpot and her attention to the front of the classroom.

Luckily for her, the room was starting to fill up with the different students from Gryffindor house, and Slytherin house. For a second, she spotted Pansy and Blaise a few seats away from Draco and herself, and she saw Pansy's fist tighten around her quill. On the other side of the classroom, Seamus, was busying himself with his cauldron that was so burnt that his potions never properly brewed from the debris that was on the bottom of it.

Hermione put her head on her table, suddenly feeling sick. It was so much different not seeing Neville look at her anxiously, or Ron and Harry sniggering at something that one of the Slytherins did. It was just different, and she couldn't stand not being able to accept that it was.

"Heh-hem," Professor Slughorn cleared his voice and tapped his wand against the chalkboard. A piece of white, broken chalk was lifted—of course by magic—and begun writing against the green board. "Settle down, settle down, you lot! We've got work to do, potions to brew and papers to write!"

"He's a little too cheerful early in the morning," Hermione heard Draco mumble, and for a second—she placed her hand over her mouth to hide the smile that erupted—but it was quickly wiped away when she read what they were brewing today.

"Calming Draught," Hermione said rather loudly, causing people to stir in their seats, "is a potion, if brewed properly, is used to calm a person down after they had suffered trauma, shock, or an emotional outburst."

"Five points for Gryffindor, Miss. Granger." He says and paces down the aisles that are separated by the desks. "I'll give the next person—in any house—an additional five points if they can tell me why a calming draught would be necessary." He paused at the back of the classroom, humming to himself as her classmates shuffled, and stirred in their seats, "Ah—Mr. Malfoy! Enlighten us."

"Hermione said it was used to calm a person who has suffered through traumatic experiences. So—I'm thinking—that we're brewing them because of the aftermath of the war. I think doing this, is more of a way to help the people who have suffered great loss and haven't really _grieved _properly because of it."

"You would know about great loss, wouldn't you, Malfoy?" Someone called from across the room, sarcasm oozing from the voice. "I've got a gnarly scar on my leg—I'll show you mine if you show me yours!"

Draco Malfoy stirred in his seat, his eyes on the chalkboard. From the corner of Hermione's eyes she could see both Pansy, and Blaise stir in their seats as well. But Blaise, who had his fists clenched, retorted back through gritted teeth, "You wouldn't be able to comprehend what some of us had to go through—"

"Really, because I've lost all me family—"

"Zabini." Draco piped up, and didn't dare look over his shoulder, "That's enough."

"Five points from Gryffindor." Slughorn cleared his voice," The point you made, Mr. Malfoy, was very excellent! Five points to Slytherin."

Hermione was staring at Draco now, his eyes were staring at a nook on the table, and he just seemed deflated—his cheeks had paled, and his eyes seemed colorless. She almost dared to ask if he was okay. But she needed to listen, she needed to learn more about the ingredients—Draco would have to wait.

"The reason we are brewing this today because Hogwarts is home to people who might not have a home to go back to. So we want to offer them, a peaceful place to come now that things aren't threatening." The Professor began walking up again, "The battle of Hogwarts was very tragic, and much blood has been shed. Many people believe it is much too soon to come back, and educate their children. But the children are the very future we hold dear. I've come to know a lot of great people through my time in teaching, and—I'll say, it has been rather difficult seeing some go from one radical to another—"

"Professor, if you mean Lord Voldemort, I think using the term that he was a bumbling imbecile would be a good start."

"Miss. Granger, there are both good and bad in every single person sitting in this classroom—" He held his finger up, silencing her protest, "It is because of Headmistress McGonagall's request that I am standing here, wishing for my class to brew what is required of you today."

He was at the front of the classroom now, looking at the students one by one. "The reason, I'm sure, will be explained at tonight's dinner. Now—get on with it, and for homework you may give me four reasons why a calming draught would be useful in everyday life."

Potion's class was long, and she had to work with Malfoy—_again_. Who seemed to have taken her silence as a cue to talk. Though they were quick little remarks of how she was cutting things right and how she had to add _two measures of Standard Ingredient_—"_But your Hermione Granger, you saved the world, do what you please. But I swear to Merlin if I don't get an 'O' on this potion I will hex you all the way to Germany." _

But she was much too annoyed with herself, and how her stupid outburst didn't make sense. Hermione had to admit that the Calming Draught did make sense. It made all the sense in the world to brew—especially in times like this—something that would help people cope with things they can't normally cope with by themselves. And maybe—to a certain extent—that is why she came back to Hogwarts in this first place.

She wanted to be normal—but why did she plan on brewing a potion that may or may not work?

"Miss. Granger, you're going to be late for your next class if you don't leave now."

Hermione shook her head, and inclined it towards the voice, "Pardon?"

It was Professor Slughorn who was looking at her like he had just gotten back from a rough night, "Class is over, Hermione. You are free to leave, unless you still need to ask that question from earlier?"

She stood up, "I was just wondering, sir, if it isn't any bother—I want to know more about what potion ingredients work best with one another, and I wanted to know if I could come by and organize the stock pile?"

"Oh, that is a splendid idea!" He announces loudly, his hands clapping together, "Should we start this evening, after you've had dinner?"

"That will be great, Professor." Hermione grabbed her bag, and draped it over her shoulder and begun walking out of the class, "Thank you!"

"Miss Granger," He spoke suddenly, and she turned to face him. His eyes looked tired, but his head was tilted down—and for a second, she assumed that he thought she was crazy. "Can I ask what you're doing that you need this information? You've been so reluctant to answer in class, lately, it's just a different—almost concerning sign."

She chewed on the side of her mouth, thinking of her words. "Professor, it's just something to keep my mind busy is all. I haven't been sleeping well, you see—"

"My dear, we can discuss this when you come after dinner! You will be late for your next class, go on, go on!"

A breath of air escaped her lungs, and she flattened her cloak, and gave the professor a nod before leaving. Hermione turned the corner, and stopped suddenly—ducking and a bloodcurdling scream echoing the halls, erupting from her lungs. Was she out of sorts, or was there a duel happening in the hall to the Potions classroom? Three Gryffindors—one with a voice that sounded like the remark made from earlier—and two Slytherin boys tried to block and cast curses, charms, anything to stop them from catching skin.

She grimaced, and reached for her wand that was tucked away in her thigh high socks, and quickly_—'PETRIFICUS TOTALUS'_—wrapped her hand around her newly opening wound that was on her forearm. Her cloak was now ruined and she definitely would need to go to Hogsmeade, and she stumbled back, and placed a firm hand on the wall—and she heard a muffled_—"Fuck, you idiot_s! _Potter is definitely going to kill me now!_"

Her brown eyes met the gloomy grey ones, and she wanted to scream and yell, and do anything—but he kept asking her if she was alright, "that the Gryffindors started it—and fuck, Blaise, go get Professor Slughorn—and I didn't know you were still in the classroom—_and Professor_, she's bleeding!"

"What on Earth were you doing?" The Professor asked and took a look around, "Go on, you will be late to class! Nothing to see here! Nothing to see here!"

"The Gryffindor's, sir," Blaise spoke up, and she just kept looking at the gloomy grey eyes that danced with hers. "They started to say some things—"

"What things, ?"

Malfoy turned his head to look at Blaise and, reluctantly, turned his head back to Hermione. Their eyes meeting, and he took a deep breath before saying what Blaise Zabini couldn't.

"They said Death Eater's don't belong in the school."

Had she gone deaf? Was this the side effect of the curse she had so blindly ran into? Had she heard correctly? So many things she was questioning, but the questions went from one ear, out the no—she was hearing the chatter—she just wasn't focusing on it. So many questions. Who said Harry's name? Why would he kill them? Why was Malfoy staring at her so intensely—why did it look like he hurt her, and that the words that had been said to him hurt him less? Why was she concerned about his feelings? She was questioning everything. She needed to focus, she had to focus, she needed answers—"Detention, dueling is prohibited on school grounds. Come to my office after dinner."


	6. Chapter 5

What I'm wondering is how frequent you guys would like updates? One chapter every week, or every other week? Or would you prefer sporadic updates? Also, I apologize _again _for not updating. I had this chapter written up for the past week but I had no motivation to edit it because I was so tired and had gotten over a nasty cold. Anyways—

Thank you for your guys' lovely support, and feedback, and favorites, and follows. Because I honestly didn't think anyone would pay any attention to my story, and I was so nervous to do a Dramione/Tomione story; but I am _literally _so excited to write this that I dream about it often. I just want to say thanks for reading it.

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

**OOO**

Hermione Granger had changed from her cloak, tucking it in her trunk at the edge of her bed, and pulled on a woolly grey jumper. It was thick, and it scratched her skin, and it was undeniably uncomfortable. But if she were to spend a few hours down in the Potion's classroom with both Professor Slughorn and Draco Malfoy, she would endure it. Surely it would make her work harder, making her eager for the night to end so she could take off the old thing.

But it smelled of burning firewood, and dry leaves on a rainy day—_and she couldn't stand it_. She couldn't stand it because it reminded her of how unfair she was being. This thing inside of her was eating her away—eating the sensible, and reliable and overly-analytic Hermione—into something she didn't know, _someone_ who was full of despair, full of anger, full of ulterior motives; and that didn't make any sense to her. It was an anxiety that would not leave her chest—it was in her bloodstream, flowing in her veins, and slowly, slowly, _slowly_, it was taking over completely. Like an infection, something abnormal, something wrong in her brain — a rash that caused horrible bumps that scratched and swelled and felt like bugs eating her from the inside out.

She ripped the sweater off of her, the skin of her forearm was wrapped tightly with gauze, and she looked at the skin that was freckled just above it—_and wondered._ The skin there didn't hurt, but then again, Slughorn had healed her nicely. She ran her fingers just above the wound. She wasn't entirely sure why there had been a duel in the first place—it was too close to the classroom. She should have been aware, she should have been alert and maybe she could have stopped them from casting in the first place. But the bigger part of her, the part that made her heart skip a beat just thinking about it; wanted to know why it started in the first place. No—

Hermione thought she knew exactly why it had happened in the first place. She whirled her head around different observations during her classes; and had come to different conclusions. But one stuck out from the rest. _The animosity_, she knew, would still be great, considering that Draco had been the one to let Death Eaters inside the school—and he hadn't been very nice to anyone who wasn't in his_ own_ house, and he was—he was, misunderstood, wasn't he? Harry had told her that he wasn't going to kill the previous Headmaster. That he was lowering his wand down. That maybe, she thought, he didn't want to be this person that killed people. That even him, would lose some of the people around him he cared for most—_Hermione Granger knew that—_if he didn't go through with the Dark Lord's orders. She wasn't daft.

_Misunderstood, _the word was ringing in her ears, over and over and over—_misunderstood, misunderstood, misunderstood. _She needed answers, and she didn't care how she was going to get them. Why hadn't he fight back? Why hadn't he cast any spells other than to shield himself? _Why did it matter to her?_ Why was she questioning Malfoy? Why did someone say Harry's surname? There was so many questions for her to ask, and it was making her dizzy.

She wraps her hand around a thick fleece sweater that is a pretty pink color—she is sitting in her dormitory that she would of shared with Ginny; and the room is cold and her skin erupts in goosebumps on her flesh and the air burns her warm cream-colored skin; and she wants to scratch them away because for some inane reason, she is nervous. Hermione runs her hands against the pink sweater; and it is soft and warm and thick, and isn't like the other sweater that reminds her of Harry, and Ron, and the forest, and horcrux hunting. She pulls the sweater on without hesitation, and fixes her black skirt and grabs her bag from her unused bed and scurries out the door in a hurry.

It takes her a long time to get to the Great Hall. People from different Houses are in groups, and they are chatting about what the new Headmistress is announcing today—_"You don't suppose she'll announce a dance, do you?"_—then she heard a few girls squeal, and Hermione pushes past a few lads from Ravenclaw and huffs in defeat when she can't quite reach the door to the Great Hall.

The door gets pulled open, and she was about to take a step when she paused—and tilted her head up to look at him. She spots a bruise forming on his cheekbone, and he looks quite exhausted, and his hair was a mess and he is wearing his Quidditch uniform and the sweater's cuffs are mucked with dirt—_of course, he had just come from Quidditch practice_—it still didn't make sense as to why she almost felt _concerned _for Draco Malfoy.

But she followed behind him, wanting to ask if he was okay, but he parted away from her so quickly that she was left standing with her mouth gaped open slightly, ajar, and she felt slightly annoyed at herself. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she turned on her heel to the Gryffindor table, taking a seat beside Lavender, with her back facing the Slytherin table.

"Hello," Hermione said, tilting the glass of pumpkin juice into her goblet. "How are you, Lavender?"

Lavender clearly mistook Hermione's try at conversation, as a game of twenty questions, "Alright, I guess. Have you heard about what the Headmistress wants to talk about? I heard she was going to announce a ball! I think that would be wonderful! Especially since everyone's been a bit gloomy lately, like yourself—"

"I don't think it's a ball, Lavender." Hermione pauses, and she can feel her eyebrow twitch, "I've not been gloomy."

"See! You're always so pessimistic, Hermione. _Merlin's beard_, you should have a little faith." Lavender smiles, and a shrill laugh escapes her lips, "Plus I think going to a ball would do you good! Maybe it would put a little pep in your step!"

Hermione sighed, "A little faith."

"Anyways!" She continued, "I heard about the commotion in the dungeons today."

"I think you would, considering that you were in class with me."

"Not that!" She exclaimed, "You should really open your ears up."

Hermione huffed, and started filling her plate up with food. "I don't consider myself a gossip type person." She then took a long drink from her goblet and waited patiently for her blood to stop boiling.

It took all the strength in Hermione to not retort with a sarcastic comment, or a witty remark that would leave Lavender Brown baffled. In all honesty, the poor Brown girl had traits about her that reminded Hermione of that old Skeeter woman. Maybe they were related, who knows, probably second cousins once removed. But truth be told, she wanted to know what happened in the dungeons and if Malfoy had something to do with it.

Still, she questioned herself, was it really that sort of gossip she'd want to hear? She itched her arm. Well, he did have detention, so maybe she would ask him then.

She risked a look over her shoulder, and seen that he was taking a bite of mashed sweet potato, paying close attention to what Pansy was telling him, the bruise on his cheekbone getting darker and more prominent. It reminded her of her scar that was etched '_mudblood'_ when it first started to heal, the lines that scabbed over got darker and darker—until it started to fade away, a protective skin healing over it.

His eyes hopped over to hers, and for a second his eyes widened—and shrunk back into his head, as he licked his lips and took another bite of his mashed sweet potato, his eyebrows lifted. They stared at each other for another moment, and it seemed too risky—for her, for him, for the people around them—but his eyebrows furrowed, and he nodded at her, as if answering some of the questions that popped into her mind that instant, and turned back to pay attention to Pansy.

Another moment passed, and she looked at the Slytherin boy and girl's arms wrapped around each other's—and suddenly felt guilty for feeling bad for him, suddenly felt like she shouldn't care at all; and felt silly because for a moment, _one stupid, inane moment_ she felt like Draco Malfoy was the misunderstood one.

Turning in her seat, she took a bite from her bread roll, and started to pile what was on her plate into her mouth. She was c_hewing, swallowing, chewing, swallowing_—and took a nice, long drink of her pumpkin juice when Headmistress McGonagall stood up from her seat and begun to talk. Her voice loud and echoing and somewhat calming and made everyone in the Great Hall quiet down, the attention turning towards the old witch.

"Hogwarts, as you all know from sitting at four different tables, was founded by two wizards, and two witches. They each represented an aspect of personality that resides in you. But tonight, I would like to talk about something I haven't spoken of yet this year." She stopped, and looked at each of the houses, and preceded, "Each and every single one of you have gone through something this past year. You have been shown diversity. The battle of Hogwarts, the war that happened is something most of you will remember for most of your lives. I want you not to be afraid to come to your teachers, your Head of House, even your peers, if you need help."

"This does not make you a coward." She speaks again after another moment of silence, "The strongest thing someone can do is ask for help. Because Hogwarts will always help those in need." She cleared her voice and smiled—and it felt genuine and made Hermione's chest feel light and airy. "On the 31st of October, a masquerade ball will be held for the fourth years and up. Please do not let this new information get in the way of your studies."

"A ball?" Hermione mumbled—and felt bewildered, and confused, _and sick_—hiccuping as she got up from her seat, and walked out of the room. Hearing enough of Lavender Brown's gloating was loud and obnoxious and she just wanted to get away from her. "_A ball_," she said again.

"A ball." A voice echoed, and she turned her head, and watched a smirk form on Draco Malfoy's lips. "Don't be so startled, Granger. I'm going to same place you're going."

"What, to hell?" She replied, pulling at the cuffs of her sweater—she then cleared her voice, her words coming out softer this time. "But_ why_ a ball?"

"Not too sure," He said, and she titled her head up to look at him. His long strides were keeping up with her short strides. "I think it has something to do with trying to make Hogwarts a happier place. Baby steps I suppose." He paused again, "A place like Hell wouldn't suit you, Granger."

"A ball," She said again and sighed, ignoring the last comment.

"Feeling nostalgic, Hermione?" Draco muttered, his voice sounding closer than she expected—and she was right. She had stopped, and she didn't know when she stopped—but his lips were much too close to her ear, and her breathe hitched and heightened.

"Why is there a bruise on your face?" She said, taking a step forward, lurching from the imaginary cement trap. She turned to face him, and he shrugged, walking in front of her. Before he could get to far, she quickly followed behind him and grabbed onto his wrist. "Please, Draco, tell me."

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips, "I got it from Quidditch practice."

"Liar," She hissed, "Do not lie to me, Draco!"

He turned to look at her, his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. A sneer wiping his beautiful features away—and she couldn't help but flinch—because his eyes, his beautiful grey eyes were hard, and scary, and she wanted to get away. But her hand loosened around his wrist, and it fell to her side—and for one stupid, fragile moment, she felt _ridiculous_. She stared at her blush oxfords.

Her mouth opened and closed, and she wondered, what could she say? What would sound appropriate and make her seem like she hadn't gone mad for caring whether or not someone called _Malfoy_ a_ Death Eater?_ Didn't he deserve to be called that, especially when she had been called '_mudblood'_ so many times—_by him?_

But her mouth opened again, and she shrugged her shoulders like he did when she asked about the bruise. She started talking, rambling—being sorry for him, for her, for whatever she was feeling, "I was just concerned. I know I shouldn't be—but, but, but—it's the least I owe you." She stammered out.

He laughed sarcastically, and she hadn't notice that his hand was wrapped around her forearm—the one that had been hurt just hours before. She didn't wince, she didn't even look up at him. "You do not owe me anything."

"Yes I do!" Her head shot up, looking at him, trying to search for anything—_misunderstood, misunderstood, misunderstood_—and she went on, "That night, when I stunned you. In the hospital, I mean. I don't know if I was out of it, but you were trying—"

"Don't think anything of it, Granger."

"But I am!" She said, her voice getting louder—loud enough that it made his hand cover her mouth as he backed her against the wall so they were hidden from prying eyes.

Draco Malfoy's eyes searched hers. They moved around her face, and stayed for a long moment at her neck—and he could surely feel her heartbeat race. They were so close, and it was intoxicating, and it _wasn't supposed to be._ She didn't want to be this close, but it felt different—so different then the things she had known. What does she know? Right now, she knows nothing. Her head is spinning, spinning, spinning. '_Let go of me_,' she would say. '_Please let go of me, my head is spinning, you're making me dizzy._'

But the beating of her heart slowed down, and she feared it would stop if he didn't speak any time soon. His hand on her forearm traveled down to her wrist, where it was pushed back and trapped against the cold stone wall. She couldn't speak, he had silenced her with just her hand—and she had let him, because she had been vulnerable around him. But his hand that was wrapped around her wrist lifted and he glared at it—the words written so carelessly, so deeply, that it had taken so _damn long _to heal—

"What would pesky little Potter say if he found out his best friend was in such a comprising position?" He wondered out loud, and his hand that was on her mouth went down to her neck, and behind her neck, and he titled her head up. "How can you even look at me as if I'm a decent human being, when I'm not? When that word written on your wrist is there, it's scared and faded, and I could have done something—" He let go of her completely, his hand that was on the back of her neck falling to his side; the one that reached out for her wrist let go; and she shivered because he had felt _warm_**—**

"What do you know about Harry?" She asked suddenly, and he sighed. But she took a step towards him, reaching out for his arm, almost pleading to him, pleading for him to give her answers. "What do you know about Harry?"

"I know that if Harry was here, he would ask you why you're so interested in knowing how I am."

"No," She took another step towards him as he tugged her arm off of his; her voice shook, "_He wouldn't_. He doesn't care. _I don't care—_"

"What are the two of you doing in such a dark corner? People will think the two of you are up to no good." Professor Slughorn called from down the hall, "Mr. Malfoy, you have detention to serve! Let's get a move on."

"—You know, you _sounded_ almost convincing." He said, sarcasm oozing out of his mouth as he started to walk away, only to turn his head back—his grey eyes haunting, and full of disdain, and disbelief, and _pity_ and for who, she didn't know. "_Almost_."


	7. Chapter 6

I'm sorry! Sometimes I get in a really, really bad depressive state where I don't do anything for days; and as much as I wanted to post this chapter, I was just so anxious that you wouldn't like it. But that's no excuse (I guess) so I'm pushing myself to post this, though. I do hope you like it.

PS. Things are about to get good. x

CHAPTER SIX

**OOO**

Draco made it clear that he wasn't going to talk about why he had that bruise on his cheek. He wasn't going to talk at all; and that left her in her own thoughts that weaved and tangled together in endless knots—_and her head hurt_—the silence of the classroom ringing, the deafening silence washing over the three people who were present. Still, her temples pulsed, and her hands were burning—_and she felt like she was on fire_—and she couldn't stop digging through the stock piles, and organizing them—and she just wanted to take out her notebook, and question her Potion's professor. She wanted to do everything in her power to learn more, about the types of plants; what they can do, if different things were combined that wouldn't normally be combined. She wanted to test the boundaries. She wanted to do everything in her power to—

"Your hands will bleed if you don't be careful when you pick that one up."

"What?"

"_Venomous Tentacula,_" Professor Slughorn interrupted Draco, and handed both Hermione, and the boy beside her a pair of gloves. "This green spiky, toothsome plant can expel venom from its shoots, and the spikes are deadly, Miss. Granger. I'm afraid we'll have to keep this a secret from our dearest Herbology Professor, though." He gave the two of them a wink and a pat on their back, and lazily found his way back to his seat.

Hermione swiveled around, and nearly lost her footing—Malfoy catching her arm, and pulling her upright, let out an exasperated sigh—and begun asking questions, "Can you make the venom less potent if you were to add—"

"I think I would use the juice of a _Venomous Tentacula_ plant, if I was going to brew a potion myself. The affects would be more beneficial."

"And _Wiggentree,_ sir?"

"Guarded by _Bowtruckles_, they are!"

Her brain was working a mile a minute. Questions getting answered, things getting intertwined—_and connected_—with one another, and she couldn't help but run her fingers against her bag that still hung over her shoulder. She needed to right down this information; she needed to remember to get these things—if she could find them—at the next Hogsmeade trip.

"Rose thorn," She hummed out loud—the thorns were troublesome, and the effect was brief and highly unstable. But rose petals could be different, wouldn't it? They were normally brewed in love potions—but trial and error, right? It wasn't like the potion would blow up and kill her—and yes, peppermint!

Now, she was compiling a list of things that she needed, that she almost lost track of time—but she knew she needed to research more, she needed to find out more things, and how to properly brew a potion such as this one—she needed to go into the restricted section. _But how?_ It wasn't like she could walk in there so easily—surely someone would be on duty, waiting to catch the people who wandered around nowadays because _hell _everyone was so into their heads that they just mindlessly wandered instead of having horrible nightmares.

Shuffling back finally completing the disastrous task, she bumped into a chair, knocking her bag off her shoulder. A little yelp escaped her lips when a hand caught her shoulder and pushed her upright—and she never ever had been this clumsy before; but she's never been out of her right mind before, either—a hollow sigh escaping his lips.

Draco Malfoy was standing beside her impatiently, and she suddenly felt heat rise to her cheeks. She had been so completely focused, and wasn't even bothered by the fact that she had spent—_three hours—_with Draco Malfoy. She had completely forgot about all the questions she had wanted to ask him—_misunderstood, misunderstood, misunderstood_—and was now staring at him and his grey eyes that seemed years away.

She cleared her voice and dragged the seat from under her—peering around her shoulder to see that Professor Slughorn had gone to bed, or to go patrol the halls in the dungeons (she didn't know)—to try and get her bag, and bumped into Draco—and things scattered, and she cursed, and somehow, Malfoy laughed—and he bent down the same time as she and the books were sprawled everywhere, and she somehow felt embarrassed for the lack of poise; because he was grabbing her things one by one. She noticed his hands. They were cut up, and rosy, and pale, all at the same time, and _big_. They looked warm to her.

He was still laughing, and his cheeks had got red and his eyes seemed to be brighter—and she was in _awe _because she has never seen this boy laugh, or give a _genuine fucking smile_. But now, here he was, crouching beside her getting things that she had scattered on the ground.

Hermione, for a long moment, feared that she had _finally _broken Draco Malfoy.

"If you don't stop laughing this instant, Draco Malfoy," She started shakily, her ears reddening, "I will have to take you to the Hospital Wing."

"Relax," He breathed, a few chuckles escaping his lips, and—she watched his lips, pink and thin and _wet_, and her heart wandered off and she couldn't fucking breathe—he sighed breathy, heavenly, and like a Dementor, took away her breath.

His eyes had watered, Hermione observed, and she—for some stupid reason—wanted to run her thumb under his eyes and wipe the tears from his eyes away. Her heart started pacing in her chest, and she felt dizzy again—_misunderstood, misunderstood, misunderstood_—but suddenly, that feeling was gone, and the beating stopped and she thought she was going to be swallowed up.

Draco's eyes furrowed and a thin, serious line marked his beautiful smile; taking away his innocent features. "Granger, why do you have this?"

He was holding the few papers that were scrawled on in her writing; that had her notes of different potion ingredients, and what certain ingredients do, and what they did if you combined two or more ingredients together. She licked her lips that felt dry and ashy and chapped, and reached out for it. He kept it away from her, the papers going behind his head.

"I'm not going to ask you again." He sounded worried, and tired, and demanding.

"Then don't ask me again. I'm in no hurry to give you answers." She retorted back, reaching for the other things that scattered on the ground that were hers until she came across a familiar looking button. "What is this?" She announced, cautiously. She didn't realize that some of his things were sprawled on the ground, and that she must of knocked them over when she tripped.

She picked the button up. There in her hand laid a small badge that read, _'Potter Stinks'_, and she wanted to get up and grab her wand and hex the living daylights out of Draco Malfoy who was hardly anything misunderstood, in fact, he was the complete opposite. Because he still hadn't understood, and she didn't understand why he had kept this stupid fucking badge in the first place—_because that was the year of Voldemort's return._ That was the _year_ he came back. That was the year that _everything_ you thought you knew was _wrong._

"Don't lie to me," She said again, like earlier before in the cold halls, looking at him again. Watching his eyes shut, watching something, something that she didn't know—_no_, _she knew that look_. She knew it so well, because it played on Harry's face so many times, too many times, at dangerous times.

He opened them, and they weren't tired—t_hey were wide and awake and breathtaking_—and he was staring at her, and she felt like she couldn't breathe and she didn't know why this was happening. She didn't know why she was paying so much attention, too much attention, to a boy who couldn't make up his mind; to a boy with secrets.

No_—"It's not what you think."—_those haunting grey eyes have seen different things, known different things, have had such a different life.

Because if he knew better_—"I did this thing, I charmed it, you could say."—_there would be something in him that was worth caring about, something that was worth _breaking _the rules for. Her temples throbbed. She was digging herself a hole, over-thinking, misconstruing the situation. She didn't want to come up with excuses for his behavior.

_"Brush your thumb over the words,_" He said, and she finally looked down at the button. It was the color of Slytherin. It reminded her of the snake-like man she hated, slits for eyes that were colored red like blood, his deadly pale skin—and she hated that cowardly man. She hated someone who had killed everyone she held dear to her. She hated him because of how she couldn't look at Harry's face without seeing Ron's face, and she hated that—

The button looked so small, and it wouldn't have looked harmful from afar but the words, they were cruel and victorious because they know they got the job done—they know the buttons had an effect. That time, that year, it felt like everyone had been against Harry.

Slowly, she brushed her thumb against the words, and slowly, _'Potter Stinks'_ turned into, _'Head Boy'_. Hermione blinked a few times, a breathless sigh escaping her lips. She collapsed against her knees and handed it back to him. Her heart—_missing Harry_—had felt wrong. It didn't feel like hers, and neither did her mind.

But something inside her was tingling, and slowly creeping across her body—and it felt like the few sparse raindrops before a downpour of rain. Hermione brushed a piece of her hair back and finally looked at Draco.

"I want to brew a potion," She said quietly, fearing her Professor would come back any minute and tell them to go back to their common rooms. "That's why there's all those papers."

"And that's why you asked to come here tonight," He stated and his hand with the papers was resting on his thigh. "Why?"

"I'm not sure." She chuckled a few times, anxiety leaving her chest, "To help with the grieving process, I suppose."

He stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants, "If you do, I don't want to know. I'm already in trouble enough as it is."

"I think if you stop snogging Pansy in public places, you would be in less trouble." She said, a frown tugging at her lips.

He looked at her, confused and amused, "Pansy and I…,"

"I'm sorry," She said quickly and grabbed her bag, standing up, and brushing the dirt off her skirt. "I don't know why I said that. I mean, I do. When Ron and Lavander were dating, he always complained to me—"

"I don't need an explanation, Hermione."

"O-Oh, right," She muttered and tugged on her strap, nervously. "I guess I'll be going then."

It was quiet, and she wanted him to speak and fill the silence—and she just stood there, staring at him whilst his eyes searched for something in hers—and the room was starting to get cold now, and she shivered, and she didn't know if it was from the cold or the way Malfoy was looking at her.

She licked her lips again, and opened her mouth to say something—_to say anything_—but someone else beat her to it. A shrill voice, that almost reminded her of tathered leather sounded from the doorway. Hermione quickly turned around, and felt her cheeks get warm, out of irritation, or embarrassment from not leaving like she said she would—she didn't know.

"Draco," Pansy said breathlessly, and smiled at him. Hermione looked at Draco who returned it, but it didn't reach his eyes like his laugh had, or his eyes didn't sparkle like they did when he was looking at _her_—but still, he was so much kinder to Pansy than anyone he had ever met. The girl standing at the door looked like she had just woken up from a nap, "It was getting late, I just came to look for you. Your owl came by, you've gotten a letter from—"

"I'm sorry I've kept you waiting, Pansy." He says and his voice is breathy, and soft, and Hermione wonders if they have late night talks, with his voice soft and low and thoughtful, and his arm would probably be wrapped around her waist—to keep her close, and to keep her warm on cold fall nights like this one; and maybe she would tell him about her dreams, in a low sleepy voice—and _suddenly _Hermione's heart dropped in her chest, "Thanks for keeping some sort of company, Granger."

"Yeah," She replied back and hooked her thumbs under the strap of her bag; and it was so wearisome that it made Draco take another glance at her, his eyes searching for something wrong—to see if she was hurt, to see if she was bleeding—because _this _response was not snarky or sarcastic or bothersome, it just felt plainly dull—"I should be leaving now. Don't want to get detention. Goodnight Draco, Pansy,"

Hermione wrapped her hands around her waist, and walked slowly to the Hospital Wing—hoping that she wouldn't get into too much trouble or that it wouldn't be locked, and if she could just get the thought of Draco and Pansy and how their arms were probably wrapped around one another's out of her mind, maybe she wouldn't feel so lonely like she did.

She had come to the conclusion that she was only upset because _they _could do those sorts of things, and be happy, and have this life together—that she herself couldn't have with the person she admired and cared for the most. She didn't understand how good people, wonderful people, _smart _people could just one day come into her life, and vanish the next. She didn't understand how to be happy, and how to cope with these things that were running through her brain, her mind, her veins—because she didn't know what exactly it was that was running through her mind. Something inside her was making her see things differently, and sometimes those things would ignite a spark—and other times, like a cold wind, would blow it out so quickly and she would just shut down.

Something inside her craved and longed and wanted to be a part of something that was breathtaking, and would make her skin tingle—in the _best _ways—and she couldn't possibly understand where all this was coming from in one night.


End file.
